


What It Is

by EchoSilverWolf



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Inspired by the poem What It Is, John Watson gets the hell on with it, John knows he was a bit not good, John's apology, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mind Mary is the best Mary, Missing Scene, Pre-The Final Problem, S4 fix-it, Sherlock is a good friend, What happens during the fade out, it is what it is, the HUG
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 17:45:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9560096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoSilverWolf/pseuds/EchoSilverWolf
Summary: Set during The Lying Detective.What happened during The Hug-during the fade out. Things that needed saying, and things that needed doing. A "fix-it"  of sorts, or an add-on. Could be both.All revolving around the words 'It is what it is', and the poem titled "What it Is" by Erich Fried**I do not own the characters or the poetry**Betaed by my lovely friendenglandwouldfalljohn(theladyamalthea)





	

 Sherlock watched as all the walls around John Watson came crashing down. His friend dropped his head into his hands, as he began to sob openly, all the pain and anguish of loss, sorrow and guilt decimating every barrier the man had kept wrapped so tightly around himself.

Feeling his chest ache for his friend, he set his cup down and stood slowly from his chair. He knew what John needed most right now, yet was unsure how to offer it, knowing only that he would do anything for this man who was falling apart in front of him.

He crossed the space between them quietly. As he approached the person he cared for more than anyone in the world, he spoke softly.

“It's ok.”

He gently slid a comforting hand up the doctor's back, settling it firmly on his neck, pulling him close, his other hand gently holding John's arm, grounding him.

“It's not ok,” came a broken reply into his chest.

“No,” the detective responded sadly as he held his friend, “but it is what it is.”

He rested his head ever so slightly against silver-blonde hair, for all the world wishing he could absorb the man's pain into himself. Wanting to console him, but having no real experience to go on.

In all the years spent side by side, this was a territory into which neither had ventured: physical comfort. He did his best to hold back the lump in his own throat as he allowed John to cry softly against him.

Five words he had spoken triggered a memory he had hidden away, and he began soothingly reciting his feelings, masked behind the poem, into his friend's hair like a sad lullaby:

 

“It is madness  
says reason  
It is what it is  
says love

  
It is unhappiness  
says caution  
It is nothing but pain  
says fear  
It has no future  
says insight  
It is what it is  
says love

  
It is ridiculous  
says pride  
It is foolish  
says caution  
It is impossible  
says experience  
It is what it is  
says love. “

 

He finished as John's sobs were slowly abating. The two men still standing in a silent embrace.

Sherlock holding on and John not pulling back - needing the comfort of those strong hands, his anchor, who was holding all his broken pieces together.

*****

John raised his head slightly to look up at his friend.

This man who had jumped from a building to save him, and for that kindness had suffered tortures that made him sick to imagine.

This man who had run, without hesitation, into a bonfire to save him from burning.

This man who had forgiven the woman who quite literally killed him, because he cared only for John's happiness, then had nearly given up his own life, a third time, killing a man just to ensure John's safety, no matter the cost to himself. His friend who had given everything in his power, selflessly, for him, asking nothing in return.  

His friend - who had lain bleeding on a cold morgue floor and willingly _allowed_ him, encouraged him, to take out his misplaced rage and grief on his already broken body, and who, instead of hating him for the abuse, had just seen him fall to pieces and chose to _hold_ him through his tears with a tenderness he had not expected, nor did he remotely deserve.

The image of what he had done to his best friend made him feel like a monster, and he blinked back fresh tears as they locked eyes. He knew this time, however, looks wouldn't convey what needed saying. Sherlock deserved better than that, deserved better than _that_ version of him.

Still pressed together, John saw a brief confused look on his friend's face and realized he had been staring.

He cleared his throat nervously and felt as Sherlock began to anxiously loosen his grip. Instinctively, John brought one of his own hands up to the detective’s back, splayed fingers pressing firmly, keeping him where he was. Letting him know this was _all fine_.

As intimate as it was, he felt like this was the only way to force himself to get out the words he was struggling to find.

“I meant it, Sherlock,” he began, as inquisitive silver-light eyes looked back in confusion.

“What I said to...Mary...to myself. I am not the man she, or you, thought I was.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

“I owe another apology, Sherlock. To you. What I did...to you. It was unforgivable. It makes me sick to think I could've - if they hadn't pulled me back - what could have…” his voice cracked and trailed off.

The hand on his neck tightened just slightly and the taller man spoke.

“It was what you needed, John. I...”

He was cut off as John's other arm joined the first, encircling his waist and squeezing lightly.

“No. No Sherlock. Please. Listen to me? You know I am not good at this, yeah? But, please, let me finish?”

He rested his head against the taller man's chest again, avoiding his eyes.

He felt a nod against his head, and his friend fell silent.

John took a breath, dropping his eyes to the floor, and continued.

“Don't ever EVER think that _that..._ what I did, was a justifiable response. As much damage as you already did to yourself...I did far worse to you. I could have easily near killed you kicking you like that.” His voice dropped. “And you let me. Sherlock? You laid there and told me i was _entitled_. You should have fought back, you had every right...”

He felt his friend pull back slightly. Felt a long finger lift his chin.

“I would _never_ hurt you, John. Not on purpose. Not ever. No matter what you did,“ he said in a slightly wavering voice. “I could never, not even in self defence...I could…” Sherlock rested his head lightly atop his own again, and John felt the words ruffle in his hair, “never hurt you.”

Tears pricked John's eyes again and he felt exposed. Exposed and ashamed. Even now the man was _still_ focused solely on John's well being, saving no concern for his own.

“It was what you needed,” the detective said again, in a tone that tore at the doctor's heart.

“Sherlock, you see more in me than what is there. You called me a “conductor of light.” You believe me to be the heart to your brain. The sentimental one. You have me on some pedestal i have no right to be on. You call yourself a sociopath, but you just don't see, do you? You don't see who _you_ really are.”

He licked his lips in his traditional nervous tic, taking a deep breath before continuing.

“I said it to your grave - and I am saying it to you, now. Sherlock. You are the most _human_ human being i have ever met. You can be a rude twat, an utter arse and an insufferable know it all, but behind that you have quite possibly the kindest, most selfless heart I have ever known.

“You have saved my life in so many ways, yet you don't see your own worth. You said Mary's actions conferred a value on your life; if that's true, what have yours done for me? I am an idiot, Sherlock. I am selfish. I am broken. I _am_ a complete and utter _cock_. What I did to you is far beyond my ability to apologize for. But for what it is worth I am...so...so very sorry...”

The last words caught in the lump in his throat. Tears again on his cheeks but he couldn't be arsed to care.

He owed this. He owed so much more than this, really. If the small act of letting himself be vulnerable for once could prove the sentiment behind his words, then so be it.  

His eyes had averted while he spoke and he chanced a look at his silent friend, waiting for any response at all.

The look in those kaleidoscope eyes nearly made him step back.

Glistening with unshed tears of their own, and filled with some mix of emotion John couldn't distinguish. Possibly sadness or wistfulness or longing or some combination of them all?

They held each other's gaze for several heartbeats before Sherlock spoke in a deep whispered voice, so full of emotion that he had never heard before.

“ _I_ _forgive_ you, John.”

*****

It was just three words and his name. He always used his name...when he spoke. When he called out. When he needed help. Like John's name was a lifeline.

 _Three words_...

Realization hit John hard. Floored him. ‘Forgive’ wasn't the word he had intended to use.

It was just like on that bloody tarmac all over again, but this time John could see it clearly written in the man's eyes, hear it in his voice, and he suddenly understood.

He really was a colossal idiot.

Not as if he hadn't felt the same way. Before the fall. Before Mary. All those messy, terrifying, unspoken feelings he pushed aside because he truly believed his flatmate wasn't capable of such things.

Now, after all that had happened, though, all the ways his friend had shown it without words he realized, just maybe, the detective was actually more capable than most.

Mary had seen it. He had heard her words to Sherlock. What she asked of him. The phrasing she used. Words which now echoed in his head.

_The man we both love…_

Both of them had averted their gazes again, yet...neither had stepped apart. Oddly, other than the eye contact, it did not feel the least bit awkward. Having never in all these years of friendship touched in this way, it seemed surprisingly natural.

John knew he needed to speak. He was sure Sherlock would never say a word about it. He would shut himself off. He would step back. He would be respectful so soon after Mary's death. He had cared for her too. He would do what he must have been doing for years -  keeping silent, for John's sake.

A sweet, reassuring voice he had become so used to hearing in his head spoke:

“ _Tell him, John_.” He saw her step into view. “ _Just tell him,_ ” she said with a sad but loving smile. “ _Say something, John, anything_ , _but_ _say it now, before it's too late._ ”

One blink and she was gone again.

It was then that John Watson made a decision.

He nudged his head up under Sherlock's chin to get the man to look down at him.

“Hey,” he said carefully, as their eyes locked again. “I have another deduction,” he attempted with a half-smile. “Same rules as before, yeah? If I am right you have to tell me?”

Sherlock offered a small smile and nod. “Alright, John”

“I told you to call Irene and you argued with me. How that kind of entanglement isn't fulfilling to you. Yet....when I told you to take a chance, while there's still time. You shut up. Sherlock. You _never_ shut up when you're right.”

He felt his friend tense and he knew this was crazy, but he pushed on.

“Which means, Sherlock, I'm right. It would complete you as a person - and you know it.”

The younger man's eyes darted away.

“John, I really don't…”

“Shut up, Sherlock. Just shut up and look at me? I got it right, yeah? I know I did. I also know I got it wrong at the same time.”

He blinked in disbelief at the slight nod in response.

“So that means yes, that's something you want, I got it right?”

“Then what did you get wrong, _doctor?”_  Sherlock replied with a sigh, and more than a bit of resignation.

“ _Not_ The Woman...” John stated, hesitantly.

_This will change everything. What am I doing?_

“John, please don't…”

It was almost pained, pleading with an edge of panic.

“It was never The Woman.”

He exhaled nervously.

“It was also never ‘Sherlock is a girl's name,’” he continued, even quieter.

“I got it wrong, so many times before...but, not now. Not anymore…”

_It will change everything. We can't go back. I won't be able to take it back..._

The detective whispered “Don't... John?”

Desperation, fear...hope?

It was truly heartbreaking that Sherlock really couldn't do this. He looked so...afraid? Of rejection?  Why wouldn't he be? One more painful thing John had done to the man. Since day one. Denial. Always denying the truth. Not now. He already lost one person he loved, not again.

 _“Well then, John Watson, get the hell on with it?”_ Mary's voice again. Permitting. Accepting. Encouraging.

_Be the man you want to be, be who you really were all those years ago._

Struggling with his own mind he thought of something. Sherlock wouldn't know he had recognised the poem-but he had.

He spoke slowly, carefully, repeating only the key words.

“It is madness,” he began quietly to the shielded face hidden behind dark hair.

“It is fear.”

“It is pain.”

“It is foolish.”

He took a breath and tightened his hold on his friend just a little, pulling them a bit closer together, feeling his friend's sharp inhale at the touch.

“It is ridiculous and impossible.”

Icy eyes snapped open to meet sapphire ones with a flash of recognition - and John smiled.

“It is…”

War-calloused hands reached up and touched sharp cheekbones tentatively.

_Tell him, John. Show him._

“What it …”

Still wrapped in the embrace that had been anchoring him the last 10 minutes, he inched closer and pulled himself to his full height, closing any remaining gap as their two bodies stood pressed together. Sherlock's storm gray eyes blew wide, but never broke contact with his as he finished.

“...Is.”

The last word just a ghosted exhale against a still unshaven face.

A very unsure and still withdrawal-shaky hand raised to touch his cheek.  

He placed his own over it. Reassurance.

Separated by barely a breath, he repeated softly:

“It is...what it is. Sherlock. What it always was.”

_Closer_

He spoke in an emotion heavy whisper.

“You. And me. Always the two of us, yeah? Against...”

_Closer_

“...the world.”

On the last word, lips met lips. It was feather light. Neither sure whose were the first to touch. The younger man moved his hand from John's neck to rest on the his other cheek. And John circled his arms around Sherlock's neck, letting one hand tangle into his hair.

Soft. Gentle. _Loving._

Years of pretending dissolving away into this moment.

 _It is what it is._ John thought. _It is this._

It was quiet and innocent. A tentative exploration of lips and tongues. Soft, tearful, yet full of hope and so many years of unspoken things.

Minutes passed before they broke apart, foreheads resting together. Breathing the same air.

All their combined broken pieces seemingly fitting together in a way they hadn't before.

Words would come later. For now only this moment mattered.

It was interrupted by a chirping from John's phone. Probably Molly. He forgot he had sent her a message about meeting...

They separated finally. A shared smile between them.

John's eyes caught the flash of blonde standing behind Sherlock.

 _“My boys,”_ she said. _“It's about bloody time.”_ Her face breaking into a huge smile as she gave an exaggerated thumbs up and a wink.

_“Oh, and John? Do make him wear the hat?”_

**Author's Note:**

> What It Is
> 
> By Erich Fried
> 
> “It is madness  
> says reason  
> It is what it is  
> says love
> 
> It is unhappiness  
> says caution  
> It is nothing but pain  
> says fear  
> It has no future  
> says insight  
> It is what it is  
> says love
> 
> It is ridiculous  
> says pride  
> It is foolish  
> says caution  
> It is impossible  
> says experience  
> It is what it is  
> says love. “
> 
> From the first time the saying It is what it is was used all i could think of was how perfectly this poem, using those words, fit the scene. Coincidently, the phrase is used 3 times in that scene of the episode , and is also used 3 times in the poem. 
> 
> What do we say about coincidence?


End file.
